


Billy No-Mates

by extralargecoffee (yoohoopuddin)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-11-23 00:41:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11391783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yoohoopuddin/pseuds/extralargecoffee
Summary: Cole lets Solas know someone has been looking. Solas tests it out.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Not entirely sure where I'll go with this, if I'll go with it. I've just started writing again after a very long break so I apologise for it being, well, perhaps a bit of a challenge to read. Think of it as a sort of drabble/prelude that is me easing myself into the water. I'm sorry! This is just the practice I - oh so desperately - need.

It all sort of started out while they’d been in Crestwood. Cole had offered Solas some insight. He’d felt the need to share one of their fellow companion’s thoughts. Soft sparks of the spirit’s own curiosity adorned each delicate word. Solas’ reaction hadn’t been one of surprise nor expectance. It was more as if he’d received an initial task that didn’t really reveal any of the real action of, well.. his mission. 

— — — — — 

Dorian licks his lips. Fitting.  
He's alone, again. Or is he? There's certainly other people in the room. Certainly other people at the very same table he props himself up against with all the will of a distinguished flame. His eyes scan the room. One, two, three- his gaze flickers down to his fingers, counting. A sigh. A melodramatic roll of exasperated breath. A drag of the cigarettes he'd found stashed in some dark corner of the castle- well, that's what he'd say. Wasn't exactly admirable to have been trifling through a Commander's personal paraphernalia. Thought after thought, look after look, tap after tap. Alone with his thoughts, certainly. 

Solas doesn't lick his lips. He's standing, that impeccable grace composing his slender frame. The tavern's wood is surprisingly gentle against his robes. Just so that he is conscious of its presence, a mere layer from his skin. Fascinating. He ponders some more, might as well. He's got a lot of waiting around to do. He spots the other mage. Flashy. Pompous. Loud. Opinionated. Talented. Each word punctuated with the lingering smoke of the man's swings, pushes, pulls. He's impressive on the battlefield. They'd not long been to Crestwood, Cole in tow. That's what brought him here, he reckoned. The cryptic words of a wishful spirit. Certainly. Solas shrugs. He trains his eyes on the man from Tevinter. Studies his face, studies the features they share below the surface. He was once flashy, pompous, loud. Cocky and aggressive: a confident snarl, bearing the fangs of a wolf that was ready, ready to pounce, to tear the throat from every little beastie's delicious fleshy pulsating neck. The elf's fingers don't drum, but Dorian's do. 

Dorian taps, taps, taps. Then he looks. Dips his chin and flutters those eyelashes of his, a trickle of light caught in the dewy pink corner of his eye. Hm, Solas. Chuckles. Mr. Grim and Fatalistic. Oh, boy. What an ass. Maybe he should smile. Smirk? Wave! Oh, yes! Hop to his feet and sling an arm around the grumpy old sod. Grab a bottle, pal! Let's have a chat! Instead, instead, he just looks back. The look isn't thrown far: perhaps the length you'd get skimming pebbles on the shore of Storm's Coast. If you weren't missing an eye, built like a shit brick-house and titled after a cocktail of metal and beast. His brows don't furrow, his lips don't saunter any nearer the wine cooing and sighing from under him. 

"Hello, friend." Dorian lulls.

Solas doesn't give away much at the best of times. He blinks. 

Dorian continues. "I suppose we are friends, are we not? Maybe I've been too presumptive in using such terms of endearment." 

Solas blinks again, though it's accompanying by the subtle tilt of his bald head. It builds, gradually, to harmonise in a look of distant intrigue. A slight twitch - no, too soft to be a twitch - of his fingers appears to hint that his intrigue might not always remain so at arm's length. 

"Perhaps," the elf speaks.

"Perhaps, indeed," Dorian retorts with a few heavier breaths that could maybe constitute as some form of laugh. "Hm, well. How about you stay for a chat, yes?" 

Solas blinks again. Dying alone, that's what the grave stone had read. Was he lonely? Was he bored? From all the waiting around. And with that he momentarily accepts the man's invitation, albeit with a mere cough of enthusiasm. 

"Fantastic!" Dorian exclaims, raising his head and glass in unison. 

Solas sits across from the man, leaving the gentle reassurance of the wooden beam. He looks at ease in most places. As if he's simply exploring, looking. Not all those who wander are lost, and all that. 

"So," Dorian starts, or rather continues, "I wasn't really expecting to find you of all people eyeing me up from across the bar. What is it then? Finally here for some long overdue fashion advice?" 

Solas' hands ever so slightly press into the table top, a consideration of getting up and walking straight out the door. He smiles. 

"No," he replies, carefully - always so carefully. 

Dorian quirks a brow. "Oh?" 

Solas smiles again. It's a bit unnerving, really. 

The smirk that crosses Dorian's lips is just what he was looking for: the silly little shuffle that exposes all of the man's cards.  He’s played and shown and confirmed all too eagerly!

So it's true. He's interested. 

"Ah," Solas exclaims with a feigned sense of suddenness as he pretends to remember something of importance or perhaps realise the time, "I believe I shall have to postpone our chat." 

His palms press against the table as he lifts himself, gracefully, away. Dorian has barely had time to adjust his expression. 

"Another time," the elf nods.

They spoke for approximately two minutes. That’s all it took, you see.

What the fuck? Dorian all but visibly grimaces. What? He looks back into his glass of wine, searching for some form of explanation in the murky depths of the dark liquid. Maybe the fruit will spell out whether or not he was hallucinating just there. Or at least give him a hint to solving this bitch of a riddle that comes in the form of some hobo apostate. 

Solas leaves the tavern with no smile, but instead a thoughtful purse of the lips. That smirk was all it took to solidify his plans. To ease his waiting around. Two minutes was all it had taken to check, establish terrain. But maybe he's lonely or bored, after all. 

Cole appears at his side. "He's more confused now. Even more than when he liked your face in Crestwood. Thinks he's drunk too much wine."


	2. Interlude

That bloody elf. He didn't skulk, no - he swayed and lingered and moved. You couldn't really have a go at him for being a moody bastard. Although that's what Solas was, he had somehow crafted it: reworked it, into an aura of reasoned contemplation. Delicate footsteps barely pitter-pattering against both ruined cobbles and fresh grass. A gaze that seemed both focused and distracted: as if he were multi-tasking between the demon spawn swinging at his staff and some greater, personal battle. Which, in all fairness, he was - not that they knew the full extent of that quite yet. That bloody elf. 

Dorian sighs into his cup once more before downing his drink and leaving the tavern. He figures that his rather odd run-in with Solas, be it a hallucination or not, was some sort of Andstrastian force telling him to go to bed. Sleep wouldn't go a miss. Especially not after their earlier escapades in Crestwood that afternoon. Solas had been there, too. Summoning great boulders, dancing from one rock to another across the glen. Dorian remembered how he had looked, leaping and very much twirling in the comfortable light of the early sun. Dorian was appreciative of witnessing the elf's talents, the rhythm that seemed to flow as naturally as the water by which he moved. That's all it was, right? Appreciating his finesse, the technique, the firm grip of the staff, the way his teeth sunk every so slightly into his lower lip with each offence- Oh, shit. 

Dorian pauses. Or, more accurately, the man stops dead in his tracks. He's about a step or two from his quarters, when he remembers. Cole was with them, too. Dorian blinks. The dots connect. He hadn't hallucinated at all. Cole was there. Cole does that creepy thing. The bugger. Dorian had spent maybe a fraction of a second two long 'appreciating' the... skills of his perhaps-friend Solas. Cole and Solas talk. Dorian blinks again, thank Andstraste. 

The elf wasn't so much a hallucination as someone scoping out a man they very much believe to be crushing on them. Vishante kaffas. 

Dorian retires to his quarters, the dread drying out his mouth almost quenched by a morsel of excitement teetering on the tip of his tongue. 

\- - - - - 

Solas sips something that isn't tea. There's a book in front of him, opened. The smell of freshly applied paint creates an aroma of productivity. The elf thinks at a leisurely pace. Dorian Pavus. The Mage from Tevinter, Sparkler. He'd smirked. He'd looked. He's interested. Solas wouldn't have taken time to consider the implications when he was a much younger elf: lustful for blood, passion, tangible feeling. Was that he was doing now? Considering implications? Maybe. 

Solas closes over the book for no real reason, significance, purpose. He has quite a considerable bit of waiting around to do - until the whole mess with Corypheus delivers. He feels the young wolf nip at the teensy tiny nerves of his fingertips. Feels temptation - no, desire - howl. A call that no longer sounds far. 

Dorian won't have stayed in the tavern for very long after his visit, Solas knows. He'll be sleeping by now, surely. Dreaming. So he, too, closes his eyes and dreams.


	3. Dreamy

Solas slips into the fade as one might slip into something more... comfortable. Such as one of those silk robes of which Vivienne so often wore when retired to her quarters. Or perhaps a warm bath, gentle wisps of steam curling and coiling and caressing flushed skin. Delicacy, grace, intimacy.

He is aware: knows where is headed, has the comforting push of intent perched upon his shoulder, palming the small of his back. He allows consciousness to flow through him, let's it unfurl from the point of his ears to the tips of his fingers. A breath. Still, calm. 

He moves forward, Dorian's smirk playing on his mind. What a curious man. He had often expressed his admiration for Solas, had tried to find a common ground. Solas had batted away his comments, found them pointless and quite frankly, rather silly. Not entirely, mind you - but he wouldn't go admitting that quite yet - not when a more timely reciprocation could prove nothing but advantageous. But then Cole had divulged that Dorian's interest was, well, more. It wasn't necessarily shocking: what with all the theatrics that had occurred with the man's father. Solas had never even really believed the rumours surrounding the time spent between Dorian and the Inquisitor. Not that he was privy to such idle chitchat and gossip. Only what he could overhear when his footsteps maybe lingered slightly too long or he craned his neck precisely in the direction of a juicy tidbit just out of sheer coincidence. Oh, the sweet fruity nectar of biting into a ripe peach of scandal. Salivating, really. Nonetheless, Solas wasn't shocked. Not even surprised. Intrigued, yes. 

He all but glides. He reaches his destination: finds it, happens upon it, wills it. 

"Dorian," the elf speaks. 

They're in the library now: a carving of Dorian's alcove. Dorian glances around him, turning to face the voice that didn't call, but spoke, his name. 

"You again," he mutters, folding his arms across his chest. There's a slight bristle and clink of armour against soft cloth. 

Solas is inspecting the other man. He moves forward, "this is somewhere familiar. Somewhere you are at ease," he explains regardless of whether or not he really ought to explain. 

Dorian nods, slowly, a fingertip brushing against his own pursed mouth. 

"I startled you at the tavern today. I don't wish to apologise," Solas continues, emitting a slight scoff from Dorian. "You see, I received some information from our good spirit friend, Cole. He seems to believe that you admire me." 

Dorian sighs, "Oh, maker's breath! I wasn't aware that admiring the abilities of a fellow mage was worth a visit in the fade nowadays. Here I was, thinking I'd have to do something far more reckless. Perhaps cheating at chess!" Each breath sounds as though it should be punctuated by an eye roll and irritable tsk, tsk. 

"Who said anything about my abilities being the subject of your affection." 

Well, shit. Dorian's brow very nearly furrows. Is Mr. Grim and Fatalistic fucking smooth? 

"Oh, you're right. I spoke too soon. You're awful," Dorian's mouth works as if by impulse: a ready ammunition of wit and conceit to deflect any possible fragment of his vulnerability. 

Awful? Solas' lips tug to a frown, the kind that is really a clever trick of a smile. "I hope you're not insinuating I should feel any guilt for the distraction I may have caused you on the field." 

Oh, shit. Dorian should really gulp. 

"It appears your vanity precedes even my own. I bet you could give Vivienne a run for her money. Not that the pretty thing doesn't have enough to risk it," Dorian replies, the words now grating more on his teeth as they move from his mouth.

"Well, then. Perhaps you'll find no problem in telling me I am wrong," Solas threats. 

Dorian pauses, a dream-coated book nearly tickling the nape of his neck. Then, he raises his hands in defeat. 

Solas is next to him: maybe all of a sudden, maybe having slowly made his way over. Maybe. He's still looking, watching, reading. Eyes and gaze fixed to Dorian as though he were one of the books in the library. One of the many pages and spines that functioned somewhat as building blocks, towering toward; constructing a dreamscape. 

Dorian's breath hitches. There's not a particularly urgent need for composure in the fade, in one's own dreams. He always did enjoy the theatre: the dramatic aspects of life. As though every breath and step and heartbeat were inflated by hyperbole, metaphor, flare. He blinks slowly, long eyelashes very nearly grazing his cheek. He likes being watched. 

"I'm flattered, by the way," Solas speaks up again, lower now, what with his face mere seconds from Dorian's - small, quick, subtle secession of movements is all it would take. 

And there's that smirk again. Drawn across Dorian's mouth as though it were a fine red lipstick: vibrant, attractive and inviting. 

Dorian is calm in his sleep, in his dreams tonight. He lays against soft sheets and his fingers trace the stitching of his pillow. The Fade is all too welcoming to him: to the angst and vulnerability that alcohol and sex have rubbed, skinned, flailed raw.   
He explores, finds, learns. The peace cleanses his mind, exfoliates pores clogged with the scum and sweat of exhaustion, fear, isolation. 

Fuck it. Dorian closes the gap slithering between him and Solas. His red mouth presses against the elf's: exploring, finding, learning. 

Solas kisses back. 

It's a dream. Is it all a dream? Is this real? Fuelled by the delectable lack of certainty and consequence, Dorian moves a hand to cradle the elf's neck. The kiss does not break as the man feels, admires, appreciates. 

Solas' is the one to pull away: coy fingers holding Dorian's chin as the elf's breath tickles the man's throat. Maybe they're both just lonely. Maybe. Alone in their rooms, certainly. Wanting to claw at the walls of their quarters, of Skyhold, of their own skin. Wanting to break free of the restraints lonely lonely thoughts have shackled around their restless limbs. Maybe this isn't the key that will unlock their cuffs, but the brute strength that will force apart the bitter metal. 

Solas' forehead ghosts against Dorian's. Words slip softly from his tongue, 

"If my actions don't speak for themselves, I'm interested, too."


	4. Stone

Well, then. Fair enough.

Dorian pushes himself out of bed, muscled arms lifting him from the subtle tangle of cotton sheets. He sighs softly. He stands and raises a hand to tousle his own hair, a slight sheen of sweat licking at his fingers. His hand balls into a fist and he tugs, tugs, tugs for a moment: indulging the sweet tang of pain, hurt, sensation that it sparks. Sparkler. He closes his eyes. 

Interested. Solas is staring straight out: not quite focusing on the murals before him, the organised scatter of paint palettes that decorate - more than litter -the space below him. He pinches the bridge of his nose, as if he is inspecting the paint and the colour and the shapes that they make. He's not, not really. He's thinking, pondering. He's executing a fine and delicate plan: what will I do next, what will we do next. 

A kiss. A dreamy kiss. A brush of lips, ghosted by the smoky haze of the Fade. A flimsy film stretched over the point of contact: did it count? Did it matter? Does it have to. Solas licks his lips. His hands have both fallen to his side, fingers toying at the hem of his tunic. He'd quite like to kiss Dorian again. Out of curiosity. Or perhaps it's the wolf again, snarling and ready: hungry for something more physical and pleasurable. 

Solas leaves his study. Carefully makes his way up the stairs. The faint flicker of a torch lights the way toward the library. When he approaches the rows of books Dorian is there, an old leather binding stroking his palm. 

"Hello," Solas greets. 

Dorian turns, holding the book a bit tighter: which - albeit in the most subtle of fashion - shows his cards. The nerve - the jolt - of excitement at a very certain visitor. 

"Ah, if it isn't the special snowflake himself. Here to grace me with his presence," Dorian replies, soft.

"I suspect you had a good night's rest, Dorian." 

"Oh, you'd know all about that, wouldn't you? I didn't know that you were so..." He smirks, "bad." 

"Bad is a funny way to describe such events, my friend." 

Dorian places the book, the leather volume he had been holding or rather gripping, aside. He looks at Solas. It hadn't been a funny little dream after all. 

"Ah, what language would you use to describe it, then?" Dorian asks.

"Interesting."

I'm interested, too. A kiss. Another? 

Dorian's smirking all the more confidently. 

"Perhaps you should show me your murals." 

"Why yes, it would be helpful to have a man of such fine, exquisite taste give me his artistic opinion." 

Sarcasm defiantly oozed from Solas' words. It only helped to solidify Dorian's intentions. The small, secluded walk down that staircase.

The men turn. Solas heads back to his study and Dorian follows. Solas only makes it half way down the staircase before there's a hand on his wrist, a finger on his pulse. 

And then his back is pressed against the stone wall. The cold of the stone, the warmth of the torch. He lets it be.

Dorian leans in. Seizes his opportunity. I'm interested, too. 

He catches the others mouth with his own: tightens his grip on the elf's wrist. 

Solas kisses back.

Dorian's other hand is firmly pressed to the brick beside Solas' head: confiding the man to the breath of space between them.   
Their lips do not part.

Then. Then there is much interest. Hungry, lonely tongues try to find a rhythm, teeth nip sweet sweet nothings into needy needy flesh. 

Solas is sure he swallows Dorian's moans. His free hand is pulling at the man's hair, wielding the power of giving - and taking - the pleasure of pain. The wolf howls.

There's a faint rustle: an agent or other approaching. Dorian barely hears over the fire burning bright and loud in his head. Solas barely hears over the howling of the young wolf called to wake. But they do hear. 

They move apart, hands in hair and hands on wrists lingering for a second or so more before they slip from the other as quickly as they were joined. 

They take the remaining steps down toward Solas' study. The murals stand before them. The rustling disappears, fades off into the background noise of planning. 

"Well, I must say that these are very impressive," Dorian exclaims, an exhilarating faintness to his breath. "I would be interested in finding out more about your, well, obvious talent."


End file.
